


The City Holds its Breath

by AmethystDragons



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Foreshadowing, Friendship, Gen, and the rest of the gang - Freeform, let them rest, self-deprecation, varric is a worried friend, warnings for discussions of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 09:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11871312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystDragons/pseuds/AmethystDragons
Summary: Hawke shifts beside him.  He counts to five, and by the fourth count Hawke’s shoulder nudges his as she says, “So, Varric, any thoughts tonight?  Stories to tell, overfed nobles to intimidate?  Anything?”Varric asks a question he knows no one else will.





	The City Holds its Breath

They’re in the Hanged Man, as usual.  It’s probably half-past some unfathomably late hour a few steps past midnight, still mostly par for the course for them, and Varric is on what he thinks is his third tankard of the evening when he thinks, _I’m probably going to write about her death_.  

“Her,” of course, being one Marian Hawke, who currently has two muddy boots propped up on the table, a bottle of something dubious in her left hand, and a faceful of Isabela.  They’ve never had much shame, of course, but this completely left-field thought makes him lower the booze away from his mouth and glance towards the hallway, the thread of sobriety running through his head like those healing potions Anders made that taste of mud and frog eggs.  That might be just the aftertaste of the alcohol.  Hopefully.

He forces his eyes back to Hawke, who is now gesturing determinedly and widely at a giggling Merrill.  He’s known her for years now, and fondly likes to think he’s part of what planted the seeds that grew into as any a fierce wind that blows through arid sea-scarred Kirkwall - one part skilled, one part clever, and one part not giving a shit save for herself and hers (although, ruefully, even the former gets waylaid).  If any of the tales he’s woven have been worth a damn, nonetheless, he knows when an altercation is balancing up ahead - when the climax is about to trip - and wire-tense Kirkwall is groaning from every stones these days.  It’s only a matter of time before the mage struggles come to a head.  

The champion, of course, will be a part of that; not just for her title, but for all that she is.

Unsettled, he stares into the last dregs of his mug.  It’s not - that he hadn’t considered the possibility.  Of course, he’s seen and written about death.  But Hawke - loud, sharp-eyed Hawke, with daggers stuck in the tops of her boots, a ready blade in a pinch, a barking laugh and a bad joke at the wrong time - he saw the sword strike home with the Arishok, but even _that_ hadn’t killed her, so it seems _wrong_ to think about her dying when she’s weathered so much.  

He lifts the tankard to down the last swallow of ale, and it burns in the back of his throat as a cough as a hand slaps down on his shoulder.

“ _Balls_ , Hawke, don’t sneak up on a dwarf like that,” he hisses after he’s recovered, glaring at the rouge now slouched next to him.  He hadn’t even noticed her sit next to him, but he also didn’t notice when Isabela climbed onto the table to loudly serenade a quickly-reddening Fenris.  Bad habit, that, and he tries to put an extra-sharp scowl on to throw at Hawke.

Predictably, she only grins, examining her fingernails.  “Is it my fault if you’ve found something so _fascinating_ in your mug it consumes all other attention?” she asks, airily, then throws him another of those smiles that are both warm and dangerous.  “Besides, my friend, I wanted to show you the new toy I found.”  She slaps a dagger onto the table and leans back, for all the world like a self-satisfied cat.

Dutifully, Varric leans forward and makes some comment, to which they begin their usual banter.  Hawke must have cottoned on to Varric’s downshift in mood, however, and soon they just sit in silence, watching the regulars of the bar navigate around their ragtag crew.  The candles gutter overhead - forlornly, Varric thinks to himself.

Hawke shifts beside him.  He counts to five, and by the fourth count Hawke’s shoulder nudges his as she says, “So, Varric, any thoughts tonight?  Stories to tell, overfed nobles to intimidate?  Anything?”

He means to make another light-hearted comment.  He hears the conte’s second cousin’s daughter lately had the contents of her entire wardrobe stolen overnight.  A good - but not too close - acquaintance swears left and right that he’d seen a short, squat, and startlingly nimble figure dancing along the docks two nights ago.  There’s a running pool among certain people in the Hanged Man betting where Isabela and Hawke will be seen disappearing next.  The knight-commander’s kitchens have, startlingly and for at least the second (but maybe the third) time, been raided of every cranberry crumpet in the pantry.  It is these comments that he chews on, but what he finally asks is, “How much longer do you think we’ve got?”

Until our misfit family of ragtag scoundrels falls apart.  Until the knight-commander lets her paranoia get the best of her.  Until the knife with their names scrawled down the blade finally hits home.

“For what?”

“For… anything.”

Hawke doesn’t ask him to elaborate; for a breath he is relieved before maddening curiosity takes hold again.  Out of drink to brood over, he rubs his thumb along the grain of the the table, then shoots a sideways glance.  Hawke is looking - not at him, precisely, but past him.  Varric wants to look away, but as he studies the cut of her jawline, he realizes that she is considering how to answer him.

After a few more seconds, she meets his eyes; she presses her lips together before looking away, her body following the line of her movement to slump back in her chair.  Then, “I don’t usually… I don’t think there’s any.”

“What?” He presses his hands together under the table.

Hawke gazes back at him, and in the clear glitter of her eyes he sees the same bone-headedly fierce determination that had both impressed and terrified him the first time they met.  “I think,” she repeats, with a mocking curl to her mouth, “I’ve been out of time for a while.”

Self-deprecating, then, not mocking.  And profoundly… sad.  “Care to elaborate, Hawke?”  Even if he’s not sure he wants to hear why.  As a friend, to hear her out is the least to do.

She breathes out, rubs the bridge of her nose.  “I think I should have died back at Ostagar,” she says, plain and simple, and her eyes cut down to the side, seeing something he cannot.  “Then, and by the Arishok’s blade, in the deep roads… Every time then, I could have died.  Maybe I should have.  Anybody else?  Probably would already be.  I think I’ve… been too stubborn to die.  When I do finally kick it, I think it’d be… a relief, maybe.”

“That’s… no way to live, Hawke,” Varric replies cautiously.  He might not be the most optimistic dwarf in Kirkwall, but that mindset is…

“Yes, but,” she plows over him, resolute in the way that a hurricane is unstoppable, “Even if I was supposed to be dead, a thousand times over, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m here.”

Varric stops in his verbal tracks and looks at her, and there it is, the otherworldly champion-of-Kirkwall title hanging over her like a cloak - but it is Marian Hawke who says, “I’m here, and I have to live with that ending.”  Her eyes find their crew - Isabela, bright and laughing, Merrill and her sincere naivete and kindness, Fenris with his blunt words and sharp humor, Anders with exasperated reasoning and fervor, Avaline with her steady trust -  and her features soften in a way Varric has only seen a handful of times.

“Hawke,” he says, hesitant, but waves her hand and downs the last of her bottle in one fluid movement.

As if by afterthought, she adds, soft and low around the edges, “So I’ll do what I can, as long as I can, and hell to the rest afterwards.”

\---

Later, weeks and eons later as he sits at his desk with parchment crumbled around him and his head in his hands, Varric will wonder if she knew, even then.

But he’s still here, and he’ll have to live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Varric and Marian Hawke are best bros. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.


End file.
